


Good For Nothing

by dirkygoodness



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie is in a hospital a lot so like bear with me, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Medical, Multi, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating will change, Suicide mention, Trauma, descriptions of medical shit, everyone is trying to be happy, everyones fucked up, having both bedrails up is illegal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 13:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21299879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirkygoodness/pseuds/dirkygoodness
Summary: By some miracle he didn’t think he’d ever be afforded, he manages to drag Eddie out./////Richie manages to save Eddie and the clown is dead, but the Losers club still has a long way to go.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48
Collections: It Faves





	Good For Nothing

Richie doesn’t know how he manages to drag Eddie out of there, through the one person tight tunnel and the water. He barely registers anything beyond the panic and the adrenaline that's keeping him going. But by some miracle he didn’t think he’d ever be afforded, he manages to drag Eddie out of the pit.

It’s still a near thing, as the house collapses the second they all manage to get to the street - Richie falling to the ground seemingly in time with it. His legs feel weak, like noodles, like twigs trying to hold up an elephant. He couldn’t have kept on his feet for the life of him.

He’s still got a deathlock on Eddie though, holding him under his arms, so when he collapses they end up sprawled together, with Eddie laying lifeless between his legs as his own bracket them. Richie doesn’t breathe as he looks down, away from the crumbling of the house and down to Eddie.

He’s limp, feels like he’s _ dead _ with the way he’s laying all his weight against Richie’s chest. But he can’t - he _ can’t _be dead. Richie won’t let him die.

He _ can’t. _

“We need to-” Richie starts, stops, his own voice betraying the terror still running through him. The clown is dead, they _ killed _ It and yet. And yet he’s still filled with the strongest, gut turning _ terror _he’s ever felt.

It’s like a heart attack, like he’s dying as he sits there - choking on his own tongue trying to convince himself that Eddie is still okay. That Eddie _ will _ be okay. He _ has to be. _Because if he’s not Richie isn’t sure what will happen, but it feels like his life depends on it. 

“Hospital,” He manages, his shoes kicking up dust as they slip against the road as he tries to stand. “We need to go to the hospital right now, he’s - we need to get him help I-” Someone’s helping him stand, pulling him and Eddie up at the same time.

Someone else is running off towards their cars.

Someone else starts talking.

“Richie,” It’s Bev, soft and sad and afraid, “Richie, I don’t think we can help him.” _ He’s dead, _is what she doesn’t say. But it’s written in the tone of her voice, in the way she carefully frames her sentence.

Richie grits his teeth and snaps his head around to look at her, anger flooding him because if he doesn’t get angry he’s going to break and the world is going to drop out from underneath him.

The world _ is _dropping out from underneath him. 

“No, _ no! _ We have to - we can still help him, I can still-” He cuts himself off, choking on tears that are threatening him. She looks like she wants to say something else, like she’s going to say something with _ just _enough reason to break Richie’s resolve. Instead, a car comes screeching up beside them and Mike is rolling his window down to yell at them. 

“Richie, Ben, get him in the back, I’ll drive.” 

Richie doesn’t need to be told twice.

He drags himself - and Eddie - over to the car, helped more than he’ll admit later by Ben, who opens the door and lifts Eddie’s feet as Richie slides in backwards to drag Eddie in on top of him. Ben gets in the back with him, squashed beneath Eddie’s legs as he sits.

It’d be funny, in any other situation. Beverly follows, somehow fitting herself on the floor of the car, shutting the door behind her. Bill’s the last in, getting in the passenger seat, and it’s all Richie can do not to scream as he speaks next.

“Drive.”

Thankfully, Mike doesn’t need to be told twice either, as he hits the gas and gets them out of there at a speed that is definitely against the law. Richie can almost hear it, Eddie praddling off some inane statistics about car crashes, about how they should all be wearing seat belts and how, really, take it seriously, he got in a crash too so any of them can. 

Richie might smile at the thought, if it didn’t feel like someone was ripping his heart out through his chest. So he focuses on keeping pressure on the wound, his overshirt pressed as hard as he can against the gaping wound on Eddie’s chest. He can feel blood seeping into it, can feel more blood seeping into his own shirt where Eddie’s back touches his chest. It’s warm.

Richie sucks in a trembling breath and squeezes Eddie against him, like bringing him closer will help. Like Richie is holding him back from some unseen force trying to drag him away. His arm is shaking, his knuckles going white and painful as he keeps the pressure on.

But Richie doesn’t let up, and everytime his mind tells him that he _ can’t _keep up this pressure he just forces himself to press harder. No one talks, as they drive. They’re all collectively holding their breaths. Like the second one of them break it it’s going to be too late - or, if they breathe they’ll all be forced to acknowledge that it might already be too late. 

No.

It’s going to be fine.

They’re going to get him to the hospital and he’s going to be fine. 

They get to the hospital in record time - being honked at more than once, and Richie is pretty sure they ran a stoplight at one point. He doesn’t care about it - can’t care about it. Richie snakes an arm behind himself and pops the door at his back open, barely a second after they pull to a stop at the E.R.

Of course he nearly falls out when the door slides open, Richie just managing to finangle a leg behind himself to keep him from taking himself and Eddie down to the ground for a second time.

He’s wobbly, still, as he drags Eddie out of the car. Really Richie isn’t sure how he just doesn’t fall over again, but he takes it as a blessing and snakes both his hands around Eddie to keep him from slipping from his grip.

The rest of them come flying out one after another like they’re in a clown car, and Richie doesn’t have time to be uncomfortable by his own thoughts. Doesn’t have time to cringe at the thought of clowns. He has to get Eddie inside. They can _ help _him.

With a growl and a new wave of adrenaline fueled by sheer terror and panic, and maybe a lot of something else he doesn’t want to address even to himself, Richie hoists Eddie up into his arms bridal style and books it into the E.R.

Even before the sliding doors are fully open he’s screaming like he’s getting murdered, looking around wildly for anyone to help him. He probably looks like a fool, but he doesn’t care. 

“Help!” Richie stumbles his way into the reception area, and he can feel tears streaming down his cheeks as he screams. “Please, help me, he’s - you gotta help him, you gotta help him.” Everything that follows happens far too quick for Richie to process it properly. Or at least, it feels like it does.

Three nurses rush over to him, saying things he doesn’t quite catch through his hysterics. Another comes over shortly after with a stretcher - and they take Eddie away from him. Richie vaguely realizes, like he’s in a dream, that one of the nurses is holding his arms back as they take Eddie away.

The other nurses lift Eddie up and onto the stretcher. The snap of the bedrails going up into place startles him into jumping, as the three nurses surround the stretcher and take him away behind a set of large, automated doors. The last one is holding his hand now, instead of keeping his arms back, he notices.

He also notices that he’s shaking, trembling all over like a leaf. And Richie notices he’s dizzy with the need for air, and his stomach clenches on the rise of bile in his throat. Richie doesn’t have time to warn her before he doubles over and retches. 

“Jesus christ!” He hears behind him in a chorus, the others having made their way inside just in time to see him vomit. Richie groans, spitting to get the taste of it out of his mouth as the wave of nausea finally passes.

Squeezes his eyes closed hard, tries not to think too hard about the way his legs are shaking. Thankfully the nurse is smarter than he is, as she carefully ushers him over to a chair that he gratefully flops down into. 

“Alright, I’m going to need you to take some deep, slow breaths, can you do that for me, sir?” She asks, her voice rough in a way that only smoking causes, but her hand on his is reassuring and when Richie looks up at her there's no judgement there, only concern.

He closes his eyes again and nods, taking in a deep breath that stutters with sobs. In, out, in, and out again. He keeps going as she speaks, cheering him on as he goes. It feels like ages before his shaking dies down somewhat and he’s able to look back up at her again. 

“There we go,” She says, patting his hand. “Now, I need to ask you some questions, do you think you’re up for that?” Richie nods again.

“That’s very good. Okay now, is any of this blood yours?” The question confuses him and he blinks at her stupidly for a moment, before he gets the idea to look down at himself.

Sure enough he’s covered in blood - his chest, his shirt is drenched in it. So is his hand - the one she’s not holding - and Richie feels his stomach drop.

“No, it’s… it’s his.” Richie manages to grit out, looking away as fast as he can. But it’s not fast enough and all that's running through his head is the realization that Eddie’s lost _ so _much blood.

He’s lost so much blood and Richie is covered in it. Covered in Eddie’s blood.

Oh _ god. _

“-your name?” 

“Richie Tozier.” He sucks in his breath on the words, trying to keep himself from throwing up again.

“And what’s the name of your friend?”

“Eddie Kaspbrak,” Richie looks back up at her, somehow begging her silently to _ do something. _ “Is he going to be okay? I - he, he’s gonna be okay right? I need to see him, I need to make sure he’s okay-” He tries to stand, suddenly frantic - he _ has _to make sure they don’t do something stupid.

Richie doesn’t know the first thing about medical care but he knows that Eddie would be very upset if they weren’t taking the best care of him. He can just picture the strongly worded phone call he’d deliver later. The nurse pushes him back down - easily, far too easily, but Richie will swear that’s from the shock if anyone asks - and hushes him, cutting him off. 

“Mr. Tozier, please, you need to stay seated. You’ve just had a panic attack and need to calm down before you move. I can assure you we’re doing everything we can to make sure your friend is okay. But right now, you need to stay here and rest or you could end up hurting yourself, okay?” She sounds reasonable. It’s reasonable. He needs to let them do their jobs, what was he thinking? He’d only get in the way, make things worse.

“Sorry,” Richie whispers, and finally he lets himself sink bonelessly into the chair.

Everything else that happens, happens fast and blurry. He doesn’t know how long he sits there. Knows that at some point Bill comes up to them, talks to the nurse. She asks some more questions, at some point Richie is pretty sure she’s taking his pulse.

At some point she leaves and his friends surround him - sitting near, pacing in front of him. Someone else holds his hand. It’s not until a doctor comes over to them - all dressed in scrubs and a white coat, his face nervous - that Richie snaps back into himself and starts actually registering what's going on.

He sits up, the rest of the Losers standing - except. Except Beverly, who he realizes with a start is the one holding his bloody, _ disgusting _hand. She squeezes, leans her shoulder against his, and Richie doesn’t know why but it feels like she’s keeping him alive through sheer force of will at this point and he’s grateful for her. 

“How is he?” Mike asks, before Richie gets a chance to, and the doctor raises his hand as Bill and Ben crowd around him. Richie wants to joke, _ ‘give the man some space guys, what are you, robbers?’, _but he can’t get a sound out past the ball in his throat. 

“We’ve stabilized him for now-” Richie feels like someone’s lifted a brick off his lungs and he lets out a shaking breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “-but he’s in a pretty serious condition. The pipe you mentioned went through his sternum, breaking it pretty badly. He’s got four fractured ribs, and his right lung was punctured. His heart stopped once, but we managed to bring him back. At this point I can’t make any promises.” 

Eddie is stable.

Eddie could still die.

“Can I see him?” Richie asks, quiet and weakly, looking over the doctor's shoulder, unable to look up at his face. The doctor gives a weak smile and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, for sanitary reasons we can’t let any of you in right now. When you come back cleaned up I’m sure we can arrange something.”

Richie looks back down at himself and feels like a tool. He’s covered in mud, and blood, and god only knows what else. If he went in he’d probably make Eddie go septic. He lets out a nervous laugh as he looks back up at the others - who are equally dirty. 

“Yeah, no, that makes sense. Can’t have me giving him infections and stuff. I’ll just - I’m gonna go back to the hotel and clean up, you guys.” 

“We should all probably… do that.” Bill says, like he’s only just now realizing himself that they’re all filthy. Ben splays his fingers out and looks at them for a moment, pursing his lips, as Mike snorts and lifts his keys up and jiggles them around. 

“Yeah, that and you guys left your cars back there.” Right. He’d not even thought about that. Thank god for Mike at least being somewhat sensible. “Come’on, let's get going. The sooner we get there the sooner we can come check on him.”

Collectively, they all stand, making their way out to the car. They don’t run, barely managing a shuffle now that the adrenaline and panic has worn off from their fight with It. Richie still feels weak, like one strong wind and he’s going to go toppling over. Beverly squeezes his hand, though, so he manages to stay on his feet long enough to get to the car.

This time they’re all at least sitting on an actual seat, and Richie even remembers to buckle as they start driving. He barely registers the time between leaving the hospital and arriving at the hotel, but he’s glad when they finally pull to a stop.

He climbs out - finally letting Bev’s hand go - his limbs all gangly and all over the place as he goes. Feels uncoordinated, like he gets when he’s drunk or exhausted. Richie’s starting to wish he_ was _drunk.

He doesn’t stop to talk, but then again neither does anyone else - except for maybe Ben and Bev, but Richie isn’t really paying attention. He just walks silently to his room, his feet feeling heavy as bricks as he goes.

It’s probably a miracle he manages to get to his room without falling over, and when he’s finally alone, with the door shut behind him, he lets out a shuddering breath. Falls back against the door and closes his eyes as he just stands there for a moment. Focuses on just. Breathing.

On just existing long enough to processes… everything. Figure out what he's going to say when he sees everyone after the shower, figure out what to do when Eddie wakes up.

_ If _he wakes up.

Because it's not a guarantee, the doctor couldn't promise anything. Eddie could still die and Richie won't be able to do anything about it.

Won't be able to apologize, say he's sorry for putting stupid ideas of bravery in his head when he should have just _ ran. _ Because if he'd ran he wouldn't have been hurt. But Richie talked him up, made him think he could stop It. If he hadn’t said that Richie wouldn't have gotten him _ hurt. _

He jumps at the sound of someone else's door closing, snapping him from his thoughts. Richie stands there at his own door for a moment longer. Finally, with a sigh he makes his way to the shower. He’s pulling his clothes off as he goes, tossing them haphazardly around with little care for where they land.

He'll regret it later when he has to clean but for now he doesn't. That's a problem for future Richie. When Richie makes it into the shower he doesn’t bother waiting for the water to warm up, stepping inside, too strung out that he barely even feels the cold of it. He ignores the way he starts shivering again - from the cold or the panic, he doesn’t know.

He’s staring at his hands now, unable to look away from them. They’re covered in Eddie’s blood as he’d tried desperately to stop the bleeding.

There’d been _ so. Much. Blood. _

Richie was startled at just how _ warm _ it had been when it had splattered over his face. When Eddie’d been stabbed. When he still couldn’t talk and Eddie just said his name, soft and afraid and _ weak. _ He’d sounded so _ scared. _

“Fuck,” Richie hisses out, squeezing his eyes shut against the memory. When he opens them again he grabs the soap and pours far more than is needed onto his hands, grabs a washcloth and starts scrubbing.

He has to get rid of the blood. He has to get it _ off of him. _What would Eddie think of him, covered in blood? Richie keeps going, until his hands are burning and raw and clean, and even then he keeps going.

Drags the washcloth over his face hard, digging his fingernails over his cheeks as he desperately, almost frantically, tries to grind the blood away. Tries to push back his thoughts at the same time. 

_ “Richie?” Eddie’s voice was soft, as he looked down at him. The claw, coming out from his chest, jagged and red with his blood. Richie couldn’t breathe. _

_ “Richie?” His voice was desperate now, and oh so scared, his hands shaking as they pressed around his own wound. Richie couldn't breathe. _

“Fuck, fuck, _ fuck!” _Richie screams, throwing the towel down. He slams his fist against the tiled wall of the shower, his head dipping forwards.

He’s shaking again.

Did he ever stop?

A sob bubbles up in his chest, and he lets it out in a broken noise as his knees finally succumb and take him down to the floor of the shower. He keeps sobbing, unable to force the noises back as he sits there. Curls in on himself, a hand snaking up to wrap around his throat like maybe it’ll somehow help him stop.

It doesn’t.

Richie just sits on the shower floor and cries like he’s a child, or some weak idiot, who can’t even control his emotions long enough to _ clean _himself. Can’t even stop the flood of memory, the vivid images of their encounter with It.

Every last detail, from the smell of the water to the way It looked at them, to the _ nothing _ that flooded him from the deadlights. All of it, playing back for him like someone was rewinding it over and over _ and over _again.

By the time he manages to stop crying he doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there. Like everything else it's a time-fuck of an emotional episode, everything going too fast but too slow at the same time. Its as if he's locked in recalling the memory and the _ emotion _ that just keeps flooding his system for years while the rest of the world flies by.

When he exits the shower it's only been about twenty minutes, though. So. That’s something, he supposes. Richie manages to actually half-assedly dry himself off, and even considers brushing his teeth again - even though he'd done it that morning.

He stops in front of the mirror instead, halting the motion of grabbing his toothbrush. He’s stuck in place staring at the mirror. At first, the face he sees is foreign - not unlike the twisted reality warping bullshit It pulled to give them visions. The same kind of almost high-like fog around his mind as he looks at it.

But it's not a vision, not some conjuration, it's him. Richie’s own, real, _ cleaned _face. It's almost ironic that this is probably the cleanest he's seen himself in years. That he cleans himself up so well for someone who might be dying. It’s like getting dolled up for a funeral.

Richie winces at that thought, and focuses on his face again. Beyond the new shine he looks like shit. Like he’s a zombie or something equally as gross, running around trying to pretend he’s still human. He grimaces and turns, shutting the bathroom door behind him with a loud thud. 

He dresses numbly, having trouble landing long enough on any other thoughts past giving himself step-by-step instructions on how to put pants on. It does do a good job of getting him dressed, though. Sometimes baby-step style walking yourself through things helped.

At least, it did when he was drunk, so. He goes to pull his shirt on- a crappy old Star Wars t-shirt he'd had since god only knows how long that's so faded it looks more like 'S-r -a-s' than anything else. But, right as he gets it on, there's a knock on the door, and it makes him pause just as he pulls it down to his waist.

Richie hesitates for a moment, considering not answering it. For a split second, he’s second guessing who could be knocking. He’s trying to asses the threat level for a good thirty seconds before he shakes himself, hissing at his own stupidity. Quickly, to make up for his lapse in sense, Richie moves to the door.

He's expecting Bev, since Richie is _ pretty _damn sure she actually had some idea of how awful he was feeling. She seemed to at least be sure he wasn’t doing as good as normal.

Instead, it's Bill, his hand still up from knocking when the door opens. It startles him, for a moment, standing there dumbly. He shakes his head, offers up a feeble smile. 

“Hey, Bill,” His voice sounds awful, clearly broadcasting that he’d been crying for twenty minutes solid and he tries to hide his wince.

Bill either doesn’t catch it, or ignores it, offering Richie a smile that feels a little forced. Richie eyes him, wonders why he’s here, before he remembers to be an adult again and steps aside.

“Oh, uh, come in.” Bill snorts, slipping in past him casually. He wanders towards the dresser, stopping halfway to it. “Sorry about the mess.” He adds, mindlessly.

“I-It looks like a tornado blew through here,” Bill pokes fun at him, cracking a real smile now as he looks up at Richie. Something about it lets Richie deflate, breathing out a heavy breath as he goes and flops down on the end of the bed. 

“You guys saw my room when we were kids, this should _ not _be a surprise to you.” Richie gestures to the general mess with a wave of his arm.

He stops halfway through as his eyes land on his bloody shirt, and all the newfound ease he’d gotten from Bill evaporates as quickly as it showed up. Richie swallows thickly, forcing his eyes away from it. Tries not to think about it. 

“Anyway, how’s everyone holding up?” Richie clears his throat and asks, instead of addressing the dying elephant in the room. Bill makes a little ‘ah’ noise, shrugging as he takes a jerky step forwards.

“They’re - you know, as good as ca-can be. Considering. Bev and Ben have each other, so they’re copi-coping with it together. Mike didn’t… he didn’t really want to talk much about any-anything but. Y’know, he’s always been kinda keeping to hims-himself, so. I mean, I’m still gonna try and get him to tal-talk about it. That’s supposed to help, and stuff.” Bill kept taking small steps forwards as he talked, until he went quiet and he was standing in front of Richie. There was a pause where they just stared at each other, and Richie wondered when Bill became so good at sneaking up on people. 

“How’re you?” Bill asks, and it’s so clearly been his goal since he came in here, and so badly hidden, the exact opposite of smoothe, that Richie laughs.

It bubbles up out of him unexpected, unwarranted, but there he is laughing at Bill. Bill, for his part, doesn’t get annoyed. Just smiles and lets out his own laughter as he sits down next to Richie. Richie keeps laughing for a good minute, until the laughter warps and turns into weak sobs and then he’s just holding his head in his hands crying again.

Crying in front of Bill. _ God, _ he was such a fucking loser. Bill shifts, doesn’t say anything, and just places a hand at his back gently. Something about the way he does it makes Richie suck in a painful breath, gritting his teeth. It’s so - so _ caring, _ and _ nice, _and Richie doesn’t deserve that. 

“It’s my fault.” Richie gasps out, still not looking up. Bill hums softly beside him in question. “It’s - Eddie. It’s my fault.”

“What? No, Rich-”

“No, Bill,” Richie sits up, turning to face Bill as he cuts him off. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t put stupid ideas of bravery in his head, he wouldn’t have tried anything. He would have just stayed in the back and been _ safe. _But I couldn’t leave well enough alone and now Eddie’s - it’s my fault.”

“But you’d be dead.” Bill says, his face crumpled into grief. “Eddie saved you from the deadlights, and if he - if he hadn’t you’d have been dead. Any of us wou-would have done the same thing._ It _ is the _ only _ one at fault, Richie. You didn’t - you didn’t _ do _anything wrong.” 

“Well then it should have been me!” Richie screams, standing up if just to get Bill’s hand off his back. Just to get a chance to breathe. He takes a few steps forwards and stops, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

“I should have been the one to get hurt, out of all of us it should have been _ me! _ I’m - I’m fucking awful, but Eddie he’s - Eddie didn’t do anything wrong. I’m a piece of shit and I make everyone's life fucking _ awful, _ any yet out of all of us It hurt the one - It hurt the _ one _ person who never did _ anything _wrong! Why was it - why was it him?!” Richie screams out as he collapses to his knees, the palm of his hands digging into his eyes.

Tears stream steadily down his face and his hands are gross and wet from them now. Bill probably thinks he’s pathetic, breaking down twice in as many minutes over this. 

“It should have been me.” Richie says, softly, letting his hands drop down to his sides. Silence follows, and for a moment Richie thinks Bill has left.

That he got tired of Richie’s pity party and left as soon as he had a chance too. Richie wouldn’t blame him. He’s pathetic.

It’s the hug that startles him though. One moment he’s just sitting by himself on the floor, crying like a five year old, and the next he feels Bill wrap his arms around him and drop his forehead on his shoulder.

Bill doesn’t say anything, just keeps hugging him. It drags another sob up from Richie’s throat, and Bill just. Hugs him harder. Just stays there with him, _ for him, _as he cries into the otherwise silent room.

It’s weird.

It helps.


End file.
